


Lost

by pat_t



Category: Highlander: The Series, Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pat_t/pseuds/pat_t
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos ends up a long way from home. Highlander/Queer as Folk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Adult content for male/male slash, language, violence, DM/M, written for the Summer Madness Contest. This story takes place during the end of season 3/ beginning of season 4 of Queer As Folk. Ted is in rehab; Vic is still alive; Michael and Ben are together.
> 
> Edited on February 19, 2016

  
  


Methos squirmed against the warm, solid chest of his lover, the soft skin and silky chest hair a caress while hard muscle pillowed his head. He kept his eyes solidly shut and continued to breathe deeply and slowly, allowing his other senses to map out his surroundings. He smiled as the tangy scent of musk tantalized his nostrils--a scent filled with memories of urgent kisses and frantic, heated lovemaking.

Sometimes life was too good, and it was moments like these that confirmed his fierce will to survive. After all, what other point was there to existing for five thousand years if it weren't for those few precious moments when he was truly happy. Happy? Try ecstatic, he reprimanded his inner thoughts. Moments so fragile that they could slip away on a breath, lost and forgotten if not for the ache they left behind in his heart. Moments that were almost aborted before they had a chance to be conceived and borne. He shivered with the memory. It had been so close. He had been so close to losing it all.

Jacob Galati. Yes, that had pretty much summed it up. His fears, Duncan's anger. He had almost lost it all that night. If he hadn't swallowed his pride--and faced his fear. Not that it took much courage to write the Highlander a letter from Tibet, telling him how much he loved him. Thankfully, Duncan had seen through his act of cowardice and accepted his words. It had been much easier for Duncan to accept Methos' desperate need to keep him alive when he knew the truth. When he knew it had been Methos' deep love for him instead of some nefarious manipulation.

He had never been as scared in his life as the day he laid across Duncan's bed in the loft and waited for him to return. Another moment almost lost when the fake Methos had come to town. A heartbeat and it was almost gone. But thank whichever deity looks over foolish immortals, they had worked it out, quite joyfully in fact.

'Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod' he intoned in his own mind, and chuckled with the realization that he was _truly_ happy for the first time in years.

"You going to let me in on the joke?" a sleepy voice rumbled from underneath his cheek.

"Umm. Just happy. Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"S'kay. What time is it anyway?"

"Ten thirty. My flight doesn't leave until one. I have plenty of time." He frowned then, reminded that _this_ moment was coming to an end rather suddenly and quickly. Bloody Watchers. He had attempted to resign after the Jacob Galati fiasco, and good riddance to the whole lot of them. Unfortunately, resigning from the Watchers appeared to be much more involved than he had anticipated as he had been rather abruptly summonsed to appear at the Washington D.C. Watcher Headquarters immediately.

He could have refused, of course, but even he knew how unwise that would be. Especially after Joe's trial for treason. Jack Shapiro had been kicked out, but there were still many in the organization that followed his philosophy. They all knew about his connection to Joe. It was only a matter of time before they connected Adam Pierson to Macleod. Pierson could have an untimely death, he supposed, which would end his association with the Watchers once and for all, as well as the speculation. Except, he wasn't ready for Pierson to die as yet. After all, the man had just received his doctorate, and was living a very full and happy life with his lover in Seacouver. If Adam died, it would only be a matter of time before he was recognized and his cover blown.

"You don't have to go, you know."

"I do if I don't want them to get suspicious, Mac. It will be fine, you know. They don't like the fact that I've put in my resignation, but they can't really stop me. And, after all, I'm not a field agent. I'm just a lowly researcher, and a low security risk."

"Little do they know," Mac chuckled.

"Yes, well, the less they know the better. Which is why I'm going to their little tete-a-tete. The last thing I want to do right now is throw any more suspicion our way."

"I know. Just be careful, Methos. If they find out what you are, they know how to kill you."

"You don't have to remind me, Mac. And don't worry. I can take care of myself."

"I know that, old man. Just remember that you belong to me now and I'm very protective of my family."

"Is that a promise?" Methos lifted his head to look at his lover's face. A smirk was his only warning before he was flipped onto his back. He closed his eyes as a hungry mouth worked against his own. He felt a velvety tongue snake out and touch his lips and he opened his mouth to allow it entrance. Yes, that was definitely a promise.

~~~~~~

Methos stepped off the plane at Dulles International and looked around. It had been a horrible flight, and all he wanted to do was collect his sword and his bag, then find some decent food and a beer before he met with the Watchers. His first order of business was recovering his Ivanhoe which he had dutifully handed over to authorities until he arrived safely at his destination. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to travel with his weapons after the September-eleventh tragedy, and he frowned, becoming more agitated with the Watchers with every breath.

He had almost reached the baggage claim when he was pushed aside and surrounded by five dark suited men with dour expressions. "Mr.Pierson?" a voice came from behind him while his arms were grabbed and held in a steel-like grip.

Methos clenched his jaw in anger and forced himself to remain calm. His perpetrators were all mortal, and if his instincts were correct, Watchers. He mourned the loss of his Ivanhoe as he was pushed down the corridor towards the airport exit.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asked, easily assuming the role of a meek and harmless researcher, a role that had served him well in the past.

"You'll know all you need to as soon as we get to headquarters, Pierson," came the terse reply from the man who was now grasping his left wrist with a bruising twist.

 _Yes, well that's what I'm afraid of,_ he thought to himself as he was pushed roughly out the door and into a waiting limousine.

~~~~~~

"Well, isn't this cozy?" Methos asked as he surveyed the forbidding men flanking him. There was no visible means of escape. He had no doubt his five captors were well armed, despite their otherwise businesslike appearance. No one knew better than he that appearances could be deceiving, and the last thing he needed was an untimely demise and resurrection. _These_ men knew how to kill him permanently.

"Get dressed, Pierson," the tallest nondescript watcher instructed him blandly.

Methos picked up his pants and shook them out. He hadn't been strip searched in years. Demeaning bastards. He had, at least, received a small measure of satisfaction from the appreciative glances he had received. It was obvious from the stunned looks, his fellow Watchers had been somewhat surprised by the physique of one timid researcher, Adam Pierson. But, it couldn't be helped, for as much as he had wanted to, there was no way to disguise his muscular build or proud sex when standing butt naked in front of them.

And, once again he thanked his lucky stars that he had been grabbed before he had a chance to retrieve his sword and other assorted arsenal cleverly concealed in his suitcase. As long as they thought he was Adam Pierson, non-threatening Watcher, he had a chance to bluff his way out of whatever trouble he found himself in. Whereas, if they had found him with his sword, it would have been an instant proclamation to his immortality, which no doubt would have lead to his permanent death.

He zipped up his pants and slipped on his sweater, acutely aware of the intense stares following his every move. "Perverts," he muttered to himself.

"What did you say?" a threatening voice floated from behind him.

"Nothing."

"Come on, Pierson. They're waiting," the largest dark suit instructed with a threatening wave of his pistol.

They pressed around him closely, eerily silent, while steering him down a long, dark corridor, until they reached a large set of solid wood doors.

He felt a muzzle press into his back and stopped, waiting, while a sharp knock preceded a muffled voice, gaining them entrance into the room. They shuffled him in until he stood before a large oak desk. He looked around, quickly assessing the room for an escape route, and just as quickly deciding there wasn't one. The entire room was encased in rich walnut paneling, with expensive art work and thick colorful tapestries covering the walls. But, no windows and no doors save the double door behind him which at the moment was heavily guarded. Damn.

"Pierson, do you know who I am?" It was a gentle question, made with slow and deliberate speech from the man shielded behind the desk.

Methos studied him carefully, noting his balding gray haired dome, the deep set of his eyes, his large nose, and full smirking lips. He felt a shiver dance up his spine, already knowing that things were going to end badly.

"No, should I?"

The man smiled coldly and stood. "No, you probably shouldn't," he answered calmly while walking around the desk to slither into Methos' personal space.

Methos felt a flutter of movement behind him as his captors stepped closer to block his retreat. The arrogant Watcher stepped up to him, meeting him almost eye to eye, nose to nose, and shared his breath.

Not a bad intimidation technique, all things considered, Methos acknowledged to himself. 

"I'm John Blackman, Pierson. I'm the liaison between the European and American territories. Does that mean anything to you?"

Methos met his gaze calmly. "No." He was mildly satisfied when Blackman stepped back with an angry scowl.

"It means Mr. Pierson," he stated coldly, a hint of anger in the elevated pitch of his voice. "It has come to my attention that you are in violation of your Watcher oath. I'm in charge of coordinating Watcher policies and procedures between European and American regional directors. As such, it has come to me to investigate the allegations being made against you. Rest assured, Mr. Pierson, I take my responsibilities to the organization very seriously, and I have full power to execute any sentence I find appropriate."

"Violate my Watcher oath? I resigned. Is that what this is about?" Methos asked incredulously. Bloody idiots.

"Hardly. Mr. Pierson, you were in charge of one of our most sacred chronicles. Do you have any idea how privileged you were? We gave you carte blanche to one of the most important records in our archive. Methos, the most elusive and sacred immortal to ever walk this earth."

Methos stared at Blackman in disbelief as the man's voice rose with his outrage. 'God,' he groaned to himself. _Sacred?_ If the bloody idiot only knew. 

"Look, I know I was privileged to work on the Methos chronicles," he stated reasonably. "But it was time to move on. I wasn't in the field, and I don't know anything about our organization that would be a security risk to you. I've spent ten years in this organization. I respect you, what you're doing is important. I wouldn't risk that." He hunched his shoulders and looked up from under his lashes, feigning the most innocent look he could muster under the circumstances.

"Mr. Pierson. You are not here because you wanted to resign. You're here because you've already placed us at risk by trashing your oath." Blackman sat down in the cushioned leather chair behind his desk and reached for a folder. He looked up at Methos and smiled coyly. "Duncan MacLeod, Mr. Pierson."

 _Fuck!_ This was far worse than he first imagined. "What about MacLeod?" 

"Do the words _do not interfere_ mean anything to you, Mr. Pierson? Maybe as part of your oath?"

"I've never interfered. I was a researcher. Do you really believe I gave MacLeod information to help him find Methos? That's absurd." He looked toward the ceiling and closed his eyes with a mock prayer.

He heard Blackman chuckle. "You might as well save your prayers, Pierson. Even He couldn't help you right now."

"Exactly, what am I being accused of, Blackman? What's this really about?"

"Betrayal, Pierson. Treason. We saw you at the Jacob Galati trial. Coming to Joe Dawson's defense like that. It made us curious. So we started watching. And guess what we found out?"

"What? That I talked to MacLeod? There's absolutely no proof that I gave him any information or that I interfered in any way. Besides, I resigned. I'm not bound by your bloody rules anymore. I can talk to whomever I like."

"Talk? No Pierson. You did more than talk. You screwed him. Before you put in your resignation," Blackman snapped while tearing open a large manila folder. "We've been following you for months. You've been living with him in Seacouver. And, these..." he pointed at a set of photographs. "These are proof of your betrayal."

Methos reached across the desk and picked up the pictures. They were obviously from a long range lens, and they were black and white, but still clear enough to make out the loft and the two of them making love. _Fuck!_

"How long, Pierson? How long have you been betraying us to MacLeod ?"

"I haven't betrayed you. And who I sleep with is none of your damn business." Methos could feel himself getting angrier and mentally scolded himself. He had to stay calm. Even though he would dearly love to cram the pictures down the man's throat and make him choke on them, he knew that was a luxury he couldn't afford at the moment. One wrong move and he knew he would be facing a bullet.

"When one of our agents is letting an immortal stick his dick in his ass, it _is_ our business. As far as I'm concerned, it's settled. I find you guilty, Pierson."

"Guilty?" Methos exploded in outrage. "This isn't a courtroom. There hasn't been a trial. This isn't Watcher sanctioned. You're doing exactly the same thing Shapiro tried, and he was kicked out."

"Wrong. For all intents and purposes, I am the Watchers, Mr. Pierson. I make the rules." Blackman smiled, pulled a 9mm Luger from his desk drawer, and placed it on his desk. "Tomorrow morning at dawn, you'll be taken out to the courtyard and executed. That's all." Blackman dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"But...."

"This way, Pierson." A gun was thrust in his back as five sets of hands grabbed and pushed him out of the room.

~~~~~~

Methos paced the small room. It would be daylight soon, and despite the relative comfort of the room they had detained him in, he hadn't slept a wink. At least they didn't know he was immortal. Yet, he amended. Damn, even immortals didn't want to have their brains blown out. No one knew what would happen after such a traumatic event above his neck. They were all so vulnerable there. Would he heal? And if he did, how quickly? Would the Watchers witness Adam Pierson's immortality today? Or, worse, what if the force of the blast blew his head from his shoulders?

He shuddered and giggled, if somewhat hysterically, with the thought of the arrogant Watchers when his quickening took down their precious headquarters. Or would his five thousand year old quickening be lost forever? He sobered at the thought, and sat down heavily.

What have I done? _I'm so sorry Duncan._ This could be it, and I could be lost forever. He felt a heavy hand clutch his heart, and closed his eyes as he tried to will away the pain.

"It's time, Pierson." The emotionless voice broke through his thoughts, and he rose as determined hands grabbed him.

With head held high, he walked before them into the courtyard, stopping in front of Blackman who was standing ready for the execution. He shook away the hands that held him and brought himself up to his full height. "I'm ready. Are you, Blackman?"

"I'm ready, Pierson." Blackman smiled and nodded to his men who stepped away in a half circle around them.

Methos closed his eyes and let his thoughts float away from the gun that was pointed at the back of his head. Instead, he focused on memories of dark eyes and hard muscles.

"Ready, Pierson? You want a blindfold?"

He heard a voice, but it wasn't the voice of his executioner. It was a deep Scottish burr drifting through his mind with a gentle whisper. _"I love you, Methos."_ He didn't hear the gun as the safety was released, or the distinct slide of metal when it was cocked and ready to fire. He didn't feel the barrel when it was pressed to his skull. He felt soft lips moving against his own, a probing tongue licking his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth and touched it with a flick of his own tongue. Then a deafening sound, and hot searing pain, and it was all gone.

~~~~~~

John Blackman looked down in disgust at the bloody remains of ex-Watcher, Adam Pierson. A gaping hole replaced Pierson's intact skull, his brains now fertilizer for the Watcher's lawn. A cool smile touched Blackman's lips as he toed a small bloody patch of gray matter splattered obscenely against the morning grass. He saw a glint of sunlight next to his shoe, and bent over to retrieve a small section of cream colored bone. A self satisfied smirk crossed his face as he turned it over in his hand, and realized he was holding an intact section of Pierson's skull.

"Sir, what do you want us to do with the body?"

Blackman schooled his features and turned towards the agent who had spoken.

"Put him in a body bag. Deaton is going to dump him somewhere outside the city limits."

He saw a look of surprise cross the other man's face and grimaced. "Something wrong, Johnson?" he growled.

"Excuse me, sir, but don't you want him taken to the Watcher's morgue?"

Blackman eyed the short blonde man who was now swallowing nervously as he looked at the cooling corpse. "No. He was MacLeod's lover. The last thing we need is for MacLeod to find him here. That's why I had him picked up at the airport instead of waiting for him to come to us. Deaton knows what to do. When they find him, they'll think it's just another gang related act of violence."

"Yes, sir." Johnson turned to leave.

"And Johnson," Blackman called after the other man as he turned to leave. "Don't forget to empty his pockets and burn his ID."

"Yes sir."

Blackman watched his men roll Pierson's body into the dark green body bag and grinned with grim satisfaction. He palmed the piece of bone in his hand one last time, then made a decision and slipped it into his coat pocket. Such a fitting trophy for betrayal.

~~~~~~

The first breath brought a blistering pain through his lungs, which quickly spread throughout every nerve synapse in his body until he was writhing in agony. What the hell? His first instinct was panic, which quickly surrendered to an urgent need to heave his stomach contents onto the cold ground. He rolled onto his side, clutching at his cramping gut as he retched, until there was only acidic bile left to burn his throat, then even that was gone, leaving dry heaves to rack his shaking body.

The nausea finally subsided and he sat up. His mind catalogued two things simultaneously. First, he didn't know where the hell he was. And, secondly, he didn't know _who_ the hell he was. He looked down and grimaced. He was lying on the ground, his clothes grass stained, dirty and covered with what appeared to be large quantities of blood. He did a quick inventory of his body, relieved when it didn't appear that he had any injuries. Then whose blood was it? And why was he here? For that matter, where the hell was _here?!_

Realizing he wouldn't find any answers in his present circumstances, he got up and started walking. It wasn't long before he reached a main highway. He stuck out his thumb, not surprised when no one picked him up. After all, _he_ wouldn't pick him up the way he looked either.

He was surprised, then, when the driver of an eighteen wheeler screeched to a stop and blew his horn. "Hey buddy, need a ride?"

He looked up at the big burly man sitting in the cab of the truck and smiled. "Yeah, thanks."

Jumping up into the truck, he settled back with a grateful sigh.

He noticed the trucker looking him over and grimaced. He closed his eyes and let out a relieved breath when the truck pulled away from the shoulder and back onto the highway.

"Run into some trouble?"

"I don't know," he stated honestly, wondering how much trust he should place in this man.

He studied the man's profile as he drove, his dark hair, straight nose, the way his bushy black moustache covered his top lip, and made a decision, praying it was the right one.

"I don't remember anything about tonight. I don't even know where I am."

"Yeah, no shit, man? Well, I don't know what happened to you, but you're just outside Washington D.C. Do you live around here?"

"I'm not sure."

"Not sure?" the man glanced at him suspiciously. "Well, you got a name?"

Methos shrugged his answer and turned away to look at the passing scenery, hoping the other man would get the hint and drop the subject. He had already checked his pockets, only to come up empty handed. No identification, no wallet, no keys. Nothing to tell him who he was or what had happened to him.

"Bob Clement."

"Huh?" He turned and looked at the driver.

"Bob Clement. My name." While carefully maneuvering the truck, he held out his hand and smiled.

"Uh, sorry," Methos reached over and shook his hand, all the while continuing to search his mind, struggling for that one elusive memory that might tell him who he was, or what had happened to him. Something .... And, while there had been a name whispering at the back of his mind ever since he'd woken up, it didn't feel quite _right_ for him. Still, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to get it out of his head.

"Mac. My name is Mac," he offered with a smile.

"Well, Mac. I'm going as far as Pittsburgh. You're welcome to keep me company."

"Sure, thanks."

~~~~~~

The squeal of the big truck's tires signaled their arrival in Pittsburgh. He turned towards Bob and offered an apologetic smile. "Thanks. I'd--ah--offer you some money, but I don't seem to have my wallet."

"That's okay, man. I had a feeling you didn't. I also figured from your accent; you're a long way from home. Here...." He pulled out his wallet and reached for a twenty dollar bill. "This isn't much, but it'll get you a bite to eat. This is Liberty Avenue. There's a diner down the street. Ask for Deb. She'll take care of you."

Methos reached for the twenty, knowing his options were limited and thankful for the kindness. Truthfully, he was sorry they had reached their destination. Bob had turned out to be a wealth of information, and seemed to understand that he didn't want to talk about his own circumstances. But now, thanks to Bob, at least he knew the date, as well as most of the world's current events, even if he still didn't know anything about his own personal life.

"Thanks, I owe you," he offered lamely.

"Nah, man. Be cool. Maybe you can help someone else someday."

"Yeah, maybe." He hopped out of the truck and waved.

The diner was just down the road, and he entered, scowling when he noticed the stares of the other patrons. He knew he made a dismal sight with his stained and bloody clothing, but right now the sorry state of his empty stomach was driving him on. He sat down on one of the stools, wondering how he was going to find this "Deb", when a large woman with a curly red wig and heavy makeup sauntered up to the counter. She was looking him up and down and he winced, knowing what she was seeing.

"Hi, you're new here, aren't you? Want a menu or you brave enough to try the special?"

"That depends," he answered with cautious honesty. "I'm looking for someone named Deb."

The woman popped her gum and eyed him warily. "Why?"

"It's not what you think," he offered quickly, noticing the sudden chill in her voice and stare. "I just got to town and a trucker named Bob told me to ask for her. He said that she might be able to help me."

"Help you?" 

~~~~~~

Deb studied the stranger sitting at her counter and popped her gum. Under all the grime he was a hell of a looker. But something was really wrong here. His clothes were bloody and he had a slight odor about him that reminded her of stale vomit. Hell, if she didn't get him out of here, he was going to run off some of her customers. She wondered if he'd been assaulted, but there didn't appear to be any bruises or cuts on the man. Certainly not anything that would warrant the blood on his clothes.

Her first instinct was to ask him to leave, but she then reconsidered. There was something about the man. Something in his eyes, the way he looked at her with so much hope. He reminded her of a lost puppy, and she felt her heart melting.

"What's your name?"

"Mac."

She waited, but no last name was forthcoming. 'Okay, Deb,' she thought to herself while eying him suspiciously. 'Let's try a new tactic.'

"Where you from? I mean, you're not from around here. Not with that accent."

"You're the second person to tell me that tonight. Look, I'm sorry if I bothered you," he said quickly as he jumped up from his chair to leave.

Deb wasn't sure why, but something about the man made her want to help him.

"Wait," she implored with her usual loud enthusiasm. She smiled when he paused , then took the few steps needed to return to the counter. "You didn't tell me what you wanted to eat, but I wouldn't suggest the special."

"What do you suggest?" He asked with a grateful smile.

"How about a double cheeseburger and fries?"

~~~~~~

He ate his dinner, thankful that his stomach was cooperating with him after his earlier episode. Now, what was he going to do? Whoever this woman was, she seemed interested in him. She had been staring at him the entire time he ate his dinner, smiling whenever he caught her eye. But why? She was clearly old enough to be his mother, and in his current condition, he knew he was far from attractive, not to mention the horrible odor that was offending his own generous nose.

As if reading his mind, she glided back to the counter and leaned towards him. "Look, this might be presumptuous, but I suspect you don't have a place to stay. Am I right?"

"Yes," he considered carefully. What was she offering?

She must have picked up on his guarded hesitation because she immediately backed away from his personal space. "Whoa, don't get the wrong idea here, okay? I just thought you looked like you could use some help. I have a son about your age, and I know if something happened to him, I would want someone to offer him a place to stay. And it's not charity, you understand? It's just until you can figure out where you belong, and I expect you to pull your weight around the house."

"Yeah, thanks," he admitted with an easy smile. He was certainly saying that a lot today. He stood up and pulled the twenty out of his pocket, surprised when she pushed his hand away.

"Save it, gorgeous. It's on the house. Now the rules. I live with my brother Vic. You can stay in my son's old room, but you have to keep it down and you don't bring any guys home to fuck."

"Guys?" He was honestly confused. Did she just say _guys?_

"Yeah, guys. You are gay, aren't you? I mean, you do realize this is Liberty Avenue?"

He shook his head. Was he gay? Somehow he knew what that meant, but he really couldn't put a finger on his own sexuality, and there were no memories to fill the void.

~~~~~~

He moaned in his sleep, and shifted onto his back. He was aware that he was floating, the bed no longer firm under his back. He was naked, his skin beaded with a fine sheen of perspiration, his chest heaving, his breaths short, ragged pants. His sex was unbearably aroused, his cock straining and flushed, weeping from its need.

'Oh God,' he moaned. 'I need ....'

'Shhh,' came the gentling answer. 'I know what you need.'

He was aware of someone -- large, with soft, damp skin over hard muscles. The voice was deep, full of arousal with just a hint of a Scottish brogue. He looked up, searching, but the man's face remained elusive, nothing but bright light where he needed to see eyes, where he ached to find a mouth to kiss, to devour. A glimpse, and he was somehow aware of dark hair, falling loose around broad shoulders.

Then he was swimming in sensation as his mouth was taken hungrily, a velvety tongue slipping against his own. He groaned into the wet caress and thrust upwards with his hips ... needing ... wanting.

'Please ....' It was a plea -- raw and honest with his desire.

The man was looming over him; he sensed a smile playing at lips he couldn't see, and tensed as tight slick heat surrounded his throbbing cock. The pleasure was almost too much and he began thrusting, taking....

He woke with a gasp, his breaths harsh in the still room. He was lying against sweat dampened sheets, his eyes tightly closed, his heart pounding against his heaving chest. His cock was straining into the air, hard, flushed and damp, untouched. He sat up, and struggled to breathe as the faint memories started to slip away into his subconscious.

Who was the man in his dreams? Why couldn't he see his face? He could feel his touch, taste his mouth, feel the heat of his body surrounding his cock. And he felt loved, safe, content.

He moaned with frustration and reached for his aching cock. He began to stroke, slowing at the swollen head to massage the frenulum underneath while sliding his thumb across the slit. He was slick with precum, pulsing with the beating of his heart, and he began to thrust upwards into his own fist.

There was no hesitation, no finesse, just a hard, quick rush of sensation. The bedsprings groaned and squeaked in counterpoint to his own heated cries. He heard a voice whisper in his head, a deep gentle voice filled with love and awe. _'You are so beautiful. Your cock is so beautiful. I love you.'_

He screamed as his orgasm ripped through him, the waves of pleasure so intense he thought he would die from it, and his cock began pulsing out a stream of thick semen onto his chest and abdomen.

"God," he groaned as the aftershocks vibrated through his groin.

~~~~~~

Debbie Novotny glanced at her brother, Vic, and tried in vain to stifle a giggle. They had been enjoying a comfortable breakfast until the bedsprings and erotic moans from upstairs had broken into their early morning conversation. Debbie supposed she should be embarrassed, but it wasn't in her nature. It was one of the things her gay son, Michael, had to accept about her when he was growing up. She continued to eat, and congratulated herself on keeping her composure until an orgasmic scream echoed off the walls.

"Well," Vic commented blandly. "You told him he couldn't bring any guys home to fuck. You didn't say anything about him fucking himself."

She glared at him and would have commented, except it was too difficult to talk while snorting coffee up her nose.

A few minutes later, she heard their guest coming down the stairs, and turned to her brother.

"Vic, do you mind letting us have some time alone? He's been here almost two weeks, and I've had about enough of his strong, silent crap. I think it's time we had a little talk."

"Sure, I've got to go anyway. Emmett and I are planning a buffet for Lindsey's gallery again this weekend. See you later, sis." He got up and kissed her cheek, then turned to the tall man approaching the table. "Morning, Mac. Going to the comic book store today?"

"Yeah, I told Michael I would help him set up a new display."

Vic nodded and moved towards the door while two pairs of eyes followed him.

Debbie looked at her houseguest, knowing she would need to choose her words carefully. She didn't know why it was so difficult all of a sudden. She'd never taken care to censure herself with anyone else. But, somehow she sensed there was something special about him -- something she couldn't quite put her finger on. There was something in his eyes that spoke of too much pain. Pain she suspected went far deeper than his recent memory loss.

"What?" he asked, obviously uncomfortable as he struggled, and failed, to meet her eyes.

"Look, you want to talk?" she asked bluntly.

"About what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe about all the dreams you've been having. Michael said you zoned out on him a couple of times at the store. Have you remembered something?"

She waited, studying him carefully while he took a sip of his coffee. She had discovered shortly after they met that his eyes changed color depending on his mood. She watched him now, and knew he was debating what he would tell her. His eyes were dark, and full of the emotion he normally kept carefully hidden away.

"Mac, nothing shocks me. Hell, if you don't believe me, ask Michael."

"No, it's not that. Debbie, I've been having ... I don't know." He shook his head. "I guess you can call it visions, for lack of a better word," he told her somberly.

"What kind of visions?" she asked, her concern damping down her usual quick wit.

"The kind where I don't know if they're memories or if I'm losing my mind."

She felt her heart constrict. She had known a lot of men in her life, gay and straight, and there was something different about him. She had told him the truth earlier. Nothing shocked her. Not finding out her son was gay and certainly nothing this sad, good looking man could tell her now.

"I'm listening," she told him sternly, then smiled to soften the words.

He looked up and met her eyes for the first time. "I'm having visions, dreams about a man. They're never clear, though. I just get an impression."

"What kind of impression?" She picked up a strip of bacon, offered it to him, then dropped it on her own plate when he shook his head.

"That he's tall, muscular. He has long dark hair that falls around his shoulders, but I can never see his face. We're ... together...." 

Debbie frowned, expecting him to tell her more. A beat later and all the pieces fell into place. Despite the look of consternation on his face, or maybe because of it, she started laughing. "I knew it; you're gay," she crowed.

He looked at her sharply and sighed. "I wish it were that simple. Yes, we're making love in my dreams. I can hear his voice telling me he loves me. But ...."

"Mac?" She prodded when he went silent.

He took a deep breath and continued. "I'm having other dreams too. Sometimes, I'm making love with a small blonde woman. I can hear myself telling her how much I love her. I've dreamed of other women too, but I don't know who any of them are. And now I'm starting to have the visions when I'm awake, like I did at the store with Michael. If my mind isn't occupied, they just creep in and I can't stop them."

"About the women?"

"No, just the man. When I'm awake, I only see the man," he sighed. "I don't know what to make of it. Have I really slept with all those people I see in my dreams?"

"A lot of guys sleep around," she remarked casually. "I wouldn't worry about it."

"You don't understand, Deb. I'm trying to grasp who I am here, and my memories are too confusing. It doesn't make sense. I see all these women, and yet I'm thinking about this man, and ...."

She reached out and touched his hand. "Upstairs just now? You were dreaming about him?" He looked at her in dismay, and she smiled. "Hey, don't sweat it. Michael used to jerk off all the time. I'm used to it."

"Has anyone ever told you your honesty can be a little disconcerting?" He smirked.

"Yeah, all the time. Now answer the question."

"Okay, fine. Yes, I was dreaming about him."

Debbie noticed how clipped his accent became when he was irritated, and she grinned. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it ? It just means you're bi."

"Oh, well, thank you very much. I kind of figured that out myself."

She stopped smiling and cleared her throat. "Well, you don't have to get huffy about it."

"Look, I'm sorry." He backpedaled quickly. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Okay, then what do you mean?"

"It's the feelings I get when I have these dreams. When I dream about the blonde woman, I feel sad, almost despondent. I wake up and my chest feels heavy. But, when I dream about the man, it's like he completes me. I feel loved, cherished."

"Is that bad?"

"I don't know. What if my memories are wrong? What if I'm just fooling myself and there is no one else? What if I'm not worthy of love? When I'm alone I try to remember. And nothing comes. Nothing. I feel so lost sometimes. There's a great big void where my life is supposed to be, and I can't seem to work my way out of it."

She reached out and took his hand. "Give it time, Mac. It will come to you eventually."

"Sure of that, are you?" he ventured a smile her way. "What if I don't really want to know? What if it's too awful?"

"Why would you say that?" She asked, appalled by his suggestion. She sounded angry. Hell, she _was_ angry! Where the fuck was that coming from? 

"Deb, you remember when I found you." It wasn't a question, but she shook her head anyway.

"I was covered in blood and none of it appeared to be my own. In fact, there wasn't a scratch on me. What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt _him?_ "

"Mac, you wouldn't," she insisted. "So, okay, I haven't known you all that long, but I know I'm right about this." She scowled. 

"Don't you see? That's just it. You don't know me. What if I told you I had dreams where I was riding a horse and carrying a sword? What if I told you I killed in my dreams?"

"Is this man in those dreams?" she asked softly; carefully. Concerned. 

"No, not those dreams. But sometimes when I'm lying alone in bed at night, I get these feelings, and somehow I know they're real. They belong to me. Debbie, I'm so lost and somehow I know that I've been lost most of my life. It's an emptiness that almost consumes me, and then I start seeing things -- people, places. And the feelings become stronger." 

He reached over and took her hand in a strong grip. Their eyes met and she gulped. "Whatever, or whoever I was, it's not someone you need to care about. Trust me on this," he added bitterly.

She looked him in the eye and squared her shoulders in grim determination. Damn him, no one told her who she could love or accept. "I don't care what you tell me, gorgeous. You're not going to run me off or make me stop caring about you. You hear me?"

He squeezed her hand and smiled. "You may regret that someday."

"Yeah, right. And Brian Kinney might start liking pussy, but I don't see that happening either."

~~~~~~

Duncan MacLeod clutched his glass of Scotch as he paced the length of his Washington D.C. hotel room. 'Come on, Dawson. Give me something,' he grumbled to himself. It had been two weeks since Methos hopped the flight to Washington to supposedly discuss his resignation with Watcher headquarters. But, what if that _wasn't_ the real reason he was summonsed? What if they had found out he was immortal? What if they had found out he was _Methos_?

Jesus, he couldn't stand this much longer. He had already rented a car and practically torn Washington D.C. apart looking for his missing lover. He had found nothing, which could be good or bad. There had certainly been nothing to suggest a quickening, certainly not the devastation that would have accompanied a five thousand year old quickening. But, who's to say they would have killed him there? The truth was, they could have taken him anywhere in the world to kill him. They might never know, and he felt his gut clench with the thought.

Now, he waited while his Watcher, Joe Dawson, used his resources and called in a few favors, to try and find out what happened to the world's oldest pain in the ass. His patience was wearing thin, however, and he was only a hair breadth away from tearing the Watcher headquarters apart, along with any Watchers that had the misfortune to cross his path. He gulped back the last of his Scotch, closing his eyes as it burned down his throat and settled in his stomach.

He jumped when the shrill ring tore through the quiet room. Long, quick strides brought him across the room in seconds, and he jerked up the receiver with an impatient, "MacLeod."

"Mac, I think I've got something," Joe's inimitable voice rasped over the line.

"What happened, Joe? Where is he?" _Damn it, man._ Just tell me so I can go get him, he thought impatiently.

"Hold tight, MacLeod. I still don't know where he is, but I think I know what happened to him."

"What, Joe?" he growled.

"He was being held by a Watcher Tribunal for treason."

"Treason? Why? Joe, was his cover blown? Do they know he's immortal?"

"Not as far as I can tell, Mac. Look, I have to be careful. I can't risk asking too many questions, but here's what I got. They found out about the two of you, and they brought him in for questioning."

"They're pissed because we're lovers?" Mac asked incredulously.

"Are you surprised? You know our oath. _Watch and don't interfere._ Well that includes ex- Watchers. They may not be active members of the organization any longer, but they're expected to retain their oath. Top management looks down on us talking to immortals. How did you think they would react to a Watcher screwing one?"

"Okay, I get it. So what now? Tell me where he is, Dawson, so I can go get him out."

"Not so simple, Mac. I don't know where he is. The information I got is that they killed him and dumped his body. As far as I can tell, he was never found or taken to the city morgue."

"Killed him? How?" Duncan forced the words past the lump in his throat.

"Blew his brains out." Joe let the words fall without preamble.

"Mac?"

"Here, Joe. Just thinking."

"He'd be all right, wouldn't he? I mean, as long as his head was still attached...."

"I don't know," Duncan added slowly while trying to put this new information into perspective. "I think so, I mean there didn't appear to be any damage at the Watcher's headquarters from what I could see from the outside. I would imagine the old man's quickening would have taken down every stone of the place."

"Yeah, I think you're right," Joe laughed uneasily into the phone.

"It's just... Dammit, Joe. I know of immortals who were shot in the head and survived. I did when Slade shot me a few years ago. But who knows what the Watchers may have done to him. I know him, Joe. If he was alright, I would have heard from him."

"Maybe he's laying low. You know if he were to be seen right now, he'd be giving his immorality away to them. He wouldn't risk that."

"Maybe," Duncan replied uncertainly. Damn it, Methos would contact _him_ , wouldn't he? He wouldn't let him worry about him like this? For weeks? "Look, Joe, do you know where they dumped his body?"

"The word is that they left him on the outskirts of town at the dump. Mac, be careful. They _do_ know what you are and they know how to kill you."

"I will, Dawson. I'll keep you in touch. And, Joe..."

"I know, I know. I'll let you know if I hear anything."

"Thanks." Mac put down the phone and grabbed his coat. He felt the heavy weight of his Katana in it's lining and smiled ferally. Now, he had a date with the Watchers.

~~~~~~

Duncan tied up the unconscious guard and crept around the large stone building. That was the third one he had taken down as he searched the austere structure. He hadn't killed them, solely due to the fact that they hadn't permanently killed Methos. But if he found out Joe's information was wrong, all bets were off. He dusted his hands against his black jeans and continued until he reached a section of double glass doors. He silently inserted one of the keys he had liberated from the last guard's pocket. It didn't fit the lock and he silently cursed. He fumbled through three more keys until he found the one that opened the heavy glass door.

There were a few scattered lights on throughout the structure, for which he was grateful. It wasn't long until he found the main office, and he smiled once again when one of the keys fit into the lock. He closed the door as quietly as he could, and silently glided across the room. Turning on his flashlight, he placed it on the desk and started sifting through drawers.

Nothing! He jerked on the last drawer in frustration when it wouldn't open , and reached once again for the set of keys, throwing them aside with disgust when he still wasn't able to open the drawer's smaller lock. Then he smiled as he remembered the small metal pick his lover had given him.

He had been amused when he came home one day and found Methos sprawled across his bed. Once they had made their peace, followed by an hour of sweaty lovemaking, he had wheedled the old man until he showed him how he'd broken into the loft. He was even more amused the next day when Methos presented him with his very own set of picks. He could have asked Amanda to teach him the tricks of the trade years ago, but he hadn't wanted to encourage her, and somehow coming from Methos it appeared kind of, well, cute. He chuckled and shook his head when the drawer slid open in his hand.

He immediately froze, his face drawing into a deep frown as a manila folder was uncovered along with a small section of bone. One look into the folder told him everything he needed to know. Feeling his anger welling, along with the answering rise of bile into his throat, he placed the folder back into the drawer and pocketed the small section of his lover's skull.

 _Fucking bastards!_  
He left the guards tied up, and even though they hadn't seen his face, he knew his actions would be reported as soon as they were discovered. Hopefully, that wouldn't be until early morning, which would give him a good head start on finding Methos. Since they knew he was Methos' lover, he had no doubts they would know who was responsible, but he was also counting on the Watcher's well grounded fear of immortals to keep them at bay, at least for the moment. Once he was safe inside his rental car, and a good distance from the Watcher's headquarters, he took out his cell phone and dialed Joe's number.

~~~~~~

"Here." Michael handed the thick leather bound book to Methos. "Ben borrowed it from the University library. He thought you might like to read it." He smiled shyly at the tall, lanky man who had become a fixture at his comic book store the past few weeks.

"Yeah, thanks." Methos reached for the book, and reverently began to sift through its delicate pages, his long fingers skimming down each leaf while he silently translated the ancient Greek. They had found out by accident that he could read both ancient Latin and Greek when he'd picked up an old volume at Ben and Michael's apartment one night.

Ben had brought home the old texts to do some comparative research for his literature class next semester, even though he admitted he had a very scarce knowledge of the languages within each volume. Methos didn't know why, but he had an almost unnatural draw to the books, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the couch, totally oblivious to anyone else in the room as he read.

Ben and Michael had both been shocked, not to mention curious, but unfortunately, he didn't remember _how_ he knew the ancient languages, only that he did. Their excitement died down fairly quickly, however, when their discovery did nothing to further their investigation into his identity. There were no missing person reports of anyone in the higher fields of academia on record, not to mention that they didn't know his last name. Or his first name, he finally admitted, since he _still_ had the nagging thought in his mind that Mac just didn't feel right. But there _was_ a Mac in his life, he was sure of it. If only he could remember.

He was so engrossed that he didn't hear the bell when it tinkled over the front door, until Brian Kinney was standing over him with a confident smirk on his face. "What're you reading?"

Methos looked up into the handsome face and smiled. "Nothing important." He snapped the book shut and stood up. He liked both Brian and his boyfriend, Justin, but felt uncomfortable by Brian's frequent and somewhat suggestive propositions.

"Well," Brian smiled while placing a hand on his shoulder to squeeze lightly. "We're going to Babylon tonight. Thought you might like to join us."

"Come on, Brian," Michael shouted from across the room. "Leave him alone. He's told you he's not interested."

Methos looked over at his friend and smiled. "It's okay, Michael." He turned to look at the man who had now dropped his hand and slipped it into his leather jacket. They were both the same height and he looked him directly in the eye as he spoke. "Actually, I would love to go. I need a change of scenery."

"Great," Brian smiled knowingly. "We'll see you tonight." He turned and started towards the door, stopping midway to turn and address his old friend. "You can come too, Mikey, that's if you can get your boring professor to cut loose for one night."

"Ben is not boring," Michael informed him irritably. "We'll be there and you don't have to look so smug about it."

"Hey." Michael walked over to Methos, who was watching Brian disappear out the door. "Don't let Brian get to you. You don't have to go. And don't let him bully you into anything."

Methos looked down into his friend's concerned face and smiled. "Don't worry about me, Michael. I have a feeling I've eaten a few Brian Kinneys for lunch." He smirked to himself and walked away, feeling his friend's eyes on his back as he reached the door. Once there, he reached for the door handle, and turned. "You don't mind if I take this home, do you?" He lifted the heavy volume he was holding in his other hand for emphasis.

"No, sure. Go ahead."

He could hear the confusion in Michael's voice, and shrugged as the door closed behind him with a clang of the overhead bell.

~~~~~~

The music was loud, and the lights were swirling and blinding as he entered the crowded bar. He looked around and smiled. Men in various stages of undress were gyrating all over the dance floor and tables, with even a few pumping and swaying on the bar. Once his eyes adjusted, he could see the couples huddled in the corners doing some serious humping and sucking, their moans and screams drowned out by the overhead speakers. He slipped through the crowd until he spotted his friends standing against the bar. Michael swayed to the music with a beer held securely in his hand, with Ben firmly ensconced by his side, keeping the other men at bay. Emmett had joined them, looking decidedly happier than he had been in the past weeks. His partner, Ted, would be released from the drug rehabilitation center soon, and it had done wonders for his disposition.

Methos ambled over to join them, and reached for the beer Emmett was pushing towards his outstretched hand. "Hey, sweetheart. Glad you could make it."

Methos smiled at his new friend. Emmett was way over the top and he loved it. Tonight he looked every bit the homosexual poster boy with his orange latex pants and flaming red see-through top. He had already turned away, and was gesturing wildly at Michael and Ben while expounding on the various styles and worth of the dancers grinding and gyrating in front of them.

"Where's the party boy?" Methos leaned over and asked Ben.

"Out there, dancing with Justin," Ben informed him with a point of his beer toward the center of the room.

"Ah, yes. I see them." He smiled and leaned back against the bar. They did make a handsome couple. He couldn't help but remember the man in his dreams and wondered if _they_ had ever made a handsome couple.

He had almost not come tonight. He liked his new friends, but found himself uncomfortable in the loud bustle of the bar. Too much noise and confusion on the outside when all he had was confusion on the inside, he mused to himself. Whatever it was, he knew this scene was not for him. He really should leave, and he set down his empty beer bottle and stepped away, barely walking a foot from the bar when his shoulder was grabbed from behind.

"Leaving so early?" Brian asked smugly.

"Yeah, more tired than I thought, I guess," he yelled over the music.

Brian smiled knowingly and pulled him closer. "Well, you can't leave without dancing with me one time. Can you?"

Methos looked over at Justin who was smiling at him approvingly. Brian glanced at his lover before turning back to him. "Justin doesn't mind. Do you, Justin?"

"No, I don't mind." The young blond man grinned wider.

"Fine," Methos conceded. One dance and then he would leave.

Brian pulled him by the arm through the crowd, and out to the middle of the dance floor. The music hadn't stopped, with one loud rocking number continuing where the other had left off. He began to sway his hips to the beat, and closed his eyes as the music strummed through every cell of his body. He felt his cock swell and harden in his pants when he was pressed close and Brian's groin rubbed against him with the pulse of the music. His eyes snapped open and he found himself looking into the self satisfied gaze of his dance partner.

'Fuck,' he groaned to himself. He needed this badly. Needed to have someone hold him in their arms. Needed the feel of a wet mouth around his aching cock. Needed what a night with Brian and Justin could give him. He looked into Brian's sultry gaze, meeting his challenge with one of his own. A hand went into his hair, and he was pulled forward until their lips met in a bruising kiss. He twisted his hips, grinding his groin against the hardness gyrating against him. His cock pulsed with the beat as their hips thrust and moved in time. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, tensing when a deep voice entered his consciousness. "You belong to me now...."

'Oh God.' He felt sick, and he didn't know how or why, but somehow he just _knew_ by giving in to his desires, he was betraying someone.

Or maybe not. Maybe he would just be betraying himself. With all the self restraint he could muster, he pushed himself away from Brian's arousal and eased through the crowd to the front door. He made it outside, taking great gulps of air to calm himself. Christ, what was happening to him? He leaned against the building, and closed his eyes, feeling more lost with every panting breath.

~~~~~~

Methos snuggled against his pillows, thankful when sleep came quickly, relieving him from his unanswered questions and confused emotions. It wasn't long before he was dreaming, his eyes moving rapidly under his lids in REM sleep. He began moaning and thrashing as the visions played inside his head.

_The clash of swords was sounding loudly in his ears. He could see the sunlight glistening off the polished steel as one blow met another in the air. He searched, looking for the combatants, but none could be seen. Just the swords, the noise, the bright sunlight. The vision melted away._

_A tall man stepped forward and lifted a sword. A Katana. Then he saw himself step forward, lifting a sword in his own hands. It was large, heavy -- a broadsword. His sword ! How did he know that? He stepped around, swinging his sword, pushing in, dancing away. He tried to see his opponent more clearly, but all he could see was the sword slashing towards him. The sound of the blades striking one another reverberated in his ears, becoming louder and louder. He looked harder, squinting his eyes. He could barely make out a form. Large, muscular, wearing black gi pants, bare chested, dark hair swinging around broad shoulders. He danced closer, swinging his sword towards the man's midsection. He looked into his face, and groaned with frustration, as once again the face was replaced by bright light, and the features nonexistent._

_The scene shifted and he was walking alone. He became aware of a weight in his hand and lifted his arm, not surprised that he was holding his sword, only now it was dripping with blood. Whose blood? The faceless man's? The man who had made love to him in his dreams? He tried to drop the sword, throw it down, but he couldn't let go. Then, to his horror, the blood became thicker, running down the heavy blade and dripping onto the asphalt in small puddles._

_He felt the terror welling up inside himself as he watched the blood racing down his sword until it was a huge puddle under his feet. He heard a noise behind him, and turned sharply. There was no one there. His senses were hyper alert as he scanned the area, turning again as a new noise came from his right side. He saw a movement, a shadow, and then the sound of a thump as something hit the ground. He screamed in terror when he saw the decapitated head roll towards him, the long dark hair surrounding a blank face, its features obscured from his sight._

He jerked up in bed and screamed, his entire body trembling. He barely had time to register that he was awake when he heard banging at his bedroom door.

"Mac, are you all right?"

Debbie. He took a haggard breath and looked around. He was in his bedroom, shaking, covered with sweat and hyperventilating, but there were no swords and no decapitated heads.

"I'm fine, Deb. Just a bad dream. Go back to bed. Sorry," he rasped shakily.

"It's okay. Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"If you need to talk...."

"I know. Thanks." He sighed and waited until he heard her footsteps move away from his bedroom door. With a shuddering breath, he leaned back onto his pillows and remembered the day he had woken up, covered in someone else's blood and without his memory. It wasn't a stretch to figure out that he had killed someone. He had always suspected it. There had been other dreams, dreams that he did not understand. Dreams of him dressed differently, riding a horse, swinging a sword--screaming, killing, blood everywhere. But this was the first time he had seen himself fighting with the faceless man. They had always been making love in his other dreams.

Christ, had he killed him? Had he been his lover? He looked down at his hands, almost expecting to find them stained with blood, and laughed when they were not. The loneliness welled up inside him, a black void that was getting larger with each remembered revelation. And he knew, instantly and absolutely, that without the dark haired man in his life he was forever and completely lost.

~~~~~~

William Cooper pushed back his shoulder length dishwater blonde hair, grinned, and shuffled over to his rusted off-white refrigerator. He took out a beer and absently flicked the top towards his over flowing garbage can. He flopped down on his worn lazy boy, and looked around his trailer as he put the glass bottle to his lips. Swirling the bitter drink on his tongue, he swallowed, sighing heavily as the cool liquid slid down his throat.

The day had been productive, and even the sight of his dirty and frayed furniture couldn't diminish his enthusiasm. It was, in fact, a standard of living he was comfortably used to. For, unlike the others of his dubious race, he had no ambitions toward collecting large stores of money or possessions. That would have taken too much effort, for which he'd never been willing to extend for anything. Working was for fools, he mused, especially for his kind who could live forever. No, as long as he could steal enough to survive, he had all he needed.

He had, in fact, no ambitions whatsoever, which was why he never became active in the Game. Ever since the forty-nine year old man had been hanged for stealing cattle almost two centuries ago, he had survived by simply staying away from other immortals. And, while he owned a sword, he had no desire to risk his life for the dubious prize. He had found, in fact, that the Game was one more thing he was unwilling to work for, finding it much easier to accept the simple realities of his situation.

That was, until two weeks ago, when he had the misfortune to stumble onto a challenge in the squalid alley beside the trailer park where he lived. He had stayed well back from sensing range, only venturing closer when one man's head had been cleanly separated from his shoulders. He advanced on the winner as the quickening tore at the man's body, then brought out his seldom used sword to slice it through the man's unprotected neck before he realized he was in danger.

The quickening had been strong, exciting, ripping through every nerve ending with its power and sexual charge. And he had come away a junkie who had just taken his first hit, not realizing he was hooked until his body demanded the next fix.

He'd discovered the other immortal by accident one afternoon while working the streets. Liberty Avenue had been a haven of easy pickings, the use of drugs and open homosexual activity making the inhabitants easy targets for him. His first instinct on feeling the unwelcome buzz had been to run, until a moment's hesitation allowed him to observe the other man grabbing his head in pain. That had piqued his interest since it was apparent the immortal was new and probably had no idea what he was.

That had certainly put a new spin on things as Cooper had no desire to lose his head to an experienced immortal, even though his body was craving another quickening. His first instinct had been to draw the new immortal out and simply take his head. But, then it would have been over too quickly, leaving him aching for his next fix, and eventually he would have to learn to fight or lose his head.

Instead, he began following the immortal almost daily, staying just out of his sensing range, so he wouldn't be noticed. Today, he had finally ventured into the Liberty cafe where he had seen the man go several times a week for lunch. He sat at the counter, and smiled when the large red headed woman plopped a glass of water in front of him, ready to take his order. He ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and glibly entered into conversation with the man sitting next to him.

"You haven't seen a tall, slender man around here, have you?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Pardon?" A slight, brown haired man looked up from his meal, seemingly confused by Cooper's unexpected question.

Cooper peered back at him, careful to keep his face schooled and expressionless. 'Fag', he thought with disdain. "A tall, thin man -- big nose, brown hair. Have you seen him?"

"Why you asking?" His waitress narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she plopped his plate down in front of him.

"Oh, no reason. Just saw him from a distance and thought he might be someone I know."

"Well, actually--" She hesitated. "I mean, are you friends?"

 _Dumb ass,_ went through his mind. "Yeah, we are. If he's who I think he is," he added cautiously. "What's his name?"

He watched with interest as she snapped her gum, clearly wondering what she should tell him.

"Who do you think he is?" she asked cautiously. 

"A guy I went to school with. It's been a few years since I've seen him." He popped a fries into his mouth and shrugged.

She swallowed hard and appeared to be studying him.

'Isn't this interesting?' he thought with amusement. "Well, maybe it wasn't him," he assured her as if it didn't matter to him one way or another.

"No, I mean... it could be," she admitted hesitantly. "He really doesn't remember who he is."

"He doesn't?" _Perfect._

"There, ah, was some kind of accident, and he doesn't remember what happened, or who he is. I mean, if you really do know him, he'd be grateful. We all would."

He had to keep from laughing when her earlier suspicion almost magically disappeared, and she began to blithely tell him everything she knew leading up to the young immortal coming to stay with her. _Oh yes, perfect._

~~~~~~

Methos fell back against the hard stone building and grabbed his head. God, what was this? Was it some kind of retribution for his sins? A brain tumor, perhaps? He leaned against the brick and sighed with relief when the buzz eased away, leaving him sweat drenched and shaking.

The sad thing was that he found himself not caring. He had, in fact, found comfort in the idea that he might somehow pay for his sins. He was still having nightmares, many involving the mysterious dark haired man, and all involving a sword, and blood--lots and lots of blood. His victim's screams would rip his mind apart with terror until he woke with his own screams echoing in the room in synchrony.

He was now sure the sexy, mysterious man of his dreams had been his lover. He was equally sure that he had killed him. It was the only sense he could make of his fractured memories and disturbing dreams. Debbie and Vic hadn't believed him when he told them he was evil, that he deserved to die. But they couldn't see what was in his head when he closed his eyes at night. They couldn't see the blood and the fear--the look of pleasure he had seen on his own face when he swung his sword and taken a life.

Once his breathing had returned to normal and he could open his eyes without fear, he pulled away from the building and started walking towards home, only to stop suddenly and grab his head again as another wave rushed his mind and slithered down his spine.

"It's okay. I thought you were used to this by now," an unfamiliar voice told him kindly.

He opened his eyes and peered at the man standing next to him. Average height and build, scruffy and unkempt, he wasn't someone Methos recognized. But the wave of pain and nausea was subsiding and he blew out a shaky breath.

"Used to what?" he asked in a strained, clipped voice.

"The feeling. We all get it when one of us is around."

"One of us?" What did that mean? Studying the man more closely, it occurred to him that he might be a nut or a drug addict. He certainly looked the part with his dirty, rumpled blue jeans and ragged black tee shirt. His body odor and dirty long hair did nothing to improve his state when he leaned close and breathed against Methos' neck.

"Immortal. Don't you remember?"

"Immortal?" Methos peered around quickly, now hyper alert as he looked for a quick escape route from the man.

"Where's your sword, Mac?"

"Sword?"

"Yes, your sword. Did you lose it? Don't you remember me, Mac?"

"You know me?" Methos asked warily. 

"Of course I know you. I'm your teacher. Come home with me and I'll tell you everything."

Methos gulped and tried to think quickly. If this man _did_ know him, then maybe he knew who the good looking man was in his dreams. Maybe he could tell him what really happened. Maybe he could help him remember. Maybe....

~~~~~~

"Immortal? Us? Me?" Methos paced the squalid little trailer in agitation.

"Yes, both of us. But you haven't been immortal long. I was instructing you on how we survive."

Methos looked down at his hand in fascination where the blue sparks had just miraculously healed a deep cut on his palm. He would never have believed it if he hadn't seen it for himself. Immortal?

Well, if what the man said was true, it _did_ explain the swords, the blood, and the killing. Unfortunately, Cooper didn't know what happened to him after he disappeared, or who the handsome dark haired man was.

"Are you sure you don't know where I was?" he asked again, trying to piece together the new information with what his brain had been supplying him.

"No, I don't know what happened to you. You simply didn't show up one day, and you've been missing for weeks. For all I knew, someone had taken your head. In any case, I've never seen you with another man. In fact, you've been living here with me for over a year. I started your training right after your first death."

"Here?" Methos asked dubiously while looking around the filthy, worn trailer. Jesus. "Tell me about the Game again," he requested as he sat down tiredly on the lumpy yellow couch.

"All immortals play the Game, Mac."

"Including me?" Well, that part certainly made sense now.

"Yes, including you. Look, I told you, I'm your teacher," Cooper repeated, his patience appearing to erode quickly. "You owe your allegiance to me. I don't know what happened to your sword, but I'll get you another one and we'll start your training again."

"What if I can't remember? What if the next immortal beats me?"

Methos felt a chill run up his spine when the other man smiled knowingly, calmer now. "You have to start trusting me. We're a team, Mac. We stick together. That's how it's done. While one of us keeps the other immortal busy in battle, the other one can come in and take his head."

"Hardly sounds fair," Methos murmured.

"Fair? Immortals don't fight fair, not when it comes to the Game. You used to know that. Trust me. I've taken care of you this long."

~~~~~~

Methos fell across his bed, threw his arm across his eyes and groaned with frustration. Another one. Another man drawn into a bloody battle he couldn't win. He would never forget the looks on the men's faces, always the same -- disbelieving and angry. The one this morning had snarled at him accusingly, "This isn't in the rules. You can't do this." His accusations were effectively cut short, however, as Cooper had already raised his blade to separate the man's head from his shoulders.

He'd been shocked when he discovered how well he fought once he started training again. It was evident that Cooper had told him the truth, although Methos had to admit he had his doubts at first. So now it was always the same. He would challenge and draw the immortal into battle, then Cooper would come in and take his head. Methos would then stand in awe and fear as Cooper took the quickening, anticipating the day when he would be allowed to draw in another immortal's strength into his own body. Cooper said he wasn't ready. He was still too young and too inexperienced to handle a quickening. He had to admit that it looked extremely painful, although Cooper said the pain was worth the euphoria he experienced later.

But there was something eating at Methos that he still couldn't come to terms with. He had tried to talk to Cooper about his doubts, which unfortunately had only made the other man angry. He was still dreaming about the man with the long dark hair almost nightly. Sometimes they were making love, other times they were fighting with the swords. He had finally asked Cooper if it was possible that he had been the man's lover before he died, only to have him explode in anger at the possibility.

"You're not a fucking fag, Mac. Those perverts you've been living with put that shit in your head. Maybe you fought the man and took his quickening. If he was powerful or very old, he might have overwhelmed you. It could be _his_ sick nightmares you're having. You just need some pussy. Here." Cooper reached into the wallet of their latest victim and pulled out some bills. "Go and find some pussy and forget them fucking queers."

Taking the money reluctantly, he slipped it into his wallet and drove to a cheap motel. It wasn't long before a young woman with too much makeup and too little clothes was rubbing up against him. "You want some company?" she purred between dark red lips.

All he could manage was a nod and she took his hand and led him to a dark, dreary room. She immediately started stripping while ticking off her rates. "Fifty to suck you off, and a hundred to let you fuck me. I don't swallow."

He nodded and reached for his zipper when the echo of a deep, lightly accented voice interrupted his thoughts.

_I love you._

Shaking his head, he turned around in the room, confusion waring with concern as he half expected another person to appear. But, there was no one else in the room except himself and the now naked woman who was looking at him expectantly.

"Well?" She prodded with a hint of impatience.

"Here." He threw some bills on the bed and turned on his heel to leave. "I can't," he tossed over his shoulder apologetically before fleeing from the room.

~~~~~~

Methos took a deep shuddering breath and tried to sort through his confused thoughts. He was having a hard time coming to terms with the outrage and disbelief displayed by the other immortals before they were killed. Although Cooper assured him that they were playing by the rules of the Game -- that they were somehow justified -- it just didn't _feel_ right. On top of that, the night had been a catastrophe. Yes, he was also having dreams about making love with women. But, how did he explain the feeling of the man's mouth on his, or the warm, wet suction on his cock when he dreamed. Could it really be the other immortal's memories he was having? Could he really be that confused in his head? If that were the case, he didn't think he would ever be ready to take another quickening.

It didn't help that his new friends didn't like Cooper, and they had voiced their displeasure in loud and graphic language. It was bad enough that Michael had slammed his teacher, but when Emmett did as well, he had almost lost it. Who the hell was Emmett, with his own blatant dress and manner, to be putting down anyone? Stupidly, he had told him as much. Methos knew it wasn't an excuse, but, fuck, he felt like they'd backed him into a corner. He could still see the hurt look on Emmett's face before he turned to leave.

"Fine, I won't offend you any longer by staying in your presence," Emmett huffed before pulling his fake mink coat around his shoulders and turning to leave.

"Emmett, I didn't mean ...." he had called out, but stopped when the other man showed no signs of slowing down to listen. Double fuck.

His thoughts were rather abruptly interrupted by a loud knock on his bedroom door.

"Yeah," he answered weakly from his bed, keeping his arm firmly over his eyes as if that would protect him from the unpleasantness.

"Hi. stranger," Debbie offered with a tentative smile as she entered the room.

"Hi," he returned softly, lowering his arm to look at her face.

"You haven't been around much, and Michael said you haven't been to the store all week. I was getting kind of worried about you."

"No need. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Debbie, look, I appreciate your concern, but this is really none of your business."

"Don't give me that crap, Mac," her voice rose with anger. "I don't know what's going on with your _friend_ ," she spit out the word as if it were vile. "But, ever since he's been hanging around, you've been moody as hell and everyone can see how unhappy you are."

"Please Debbie, let it be. You don't understand."

"Yeah, then explain it to me. Tell me what I don't understand about a low life homophobic jerk that has you running around in circles. He says he's your friend, but does he have proof? Why would you believe him? What about the other guy, the one you were dreaming about? You thought he was your lover."

"I was wrong."

"Why ? Because that sorry bastard says so?"

"Look, you don't understand. Leave it alone, Deb. I'm warning you," he leveled his voice with frustration. 

"You're warning me?" she asked incredulously. "Well, fine. If that's the way you want it, buster, you've got it."

He winced and covered his eyes once again as the door slammed shut behind her.

~~~~~~

Duncan MacLeod sat on the bed in his hotel room, phone to his ear, and waited. He'd been hopeful when his inquiries brought a phone call from a trucker telling him he had picked up a stranger in the Washington D.C. area, and given him a ride as far as Pittsburgh. When the man made a positive identification from a picture Duncan kept in his wallet, he made record time driving to Pittsburgh. But, a full week of searching the streets had gotten him no closer to finding his elusive lover.

He was more concerned than ever after he found out Methos had apparently lost his memory. He was at the mercy of a headhunter if he didn't know who or what he was. He was secretly pleased, however, when the trucker told him that Methos had remembered one name -- "Mac".

He heard a click on the other line followed by the voice of his Watcher. "Dawson."

"I got your message, Joe. What did you find out?"

"It's not good, Mac. He's alive, but apparently he doesn't know who he is."

"Tell me something I don't know. Where is he, Dawson?"

"Keep your pants on, MacLeod. You just can't go barreling in to fix this one. He won't know you, and he could come after your head. The word is that he's taken up with another immortal named William Cooper."

"Cooper? Haven't heard of him."

"Yeah, you wouldn't have. Piece of shit from Arizona. Died about one hundred and eighty years ago. What we know is that he hasn't been active in the Game, and otherwise, he's stayed pretty much under our radar. Hell, we didn't have a Watcher on him until recently."

"If he's not a hunter, then what's the problem?"

" _Hasn't been_ active in the Game. No one's ever recorded him taking a head. Until a month ago, that is. There was an immortal in the Pittsburgh area by the name of Mike Perry. Pretty good swordsman, didn't look for trouble. Unfortunately, trouble found him by the name of Patrick Desire. Desire took his head, and while he was down for the quickening, another immortal came up behind him and took his head. Desire and Perry's Watchers have both identified him as William Cooper. Now it seems that Cooper's become a quickening junkie. Can't get enough of them."

"He's that good?"

"Hell, no. That's the problem. I asked Perry's Watcher, Charles Crow, to follow Cooper. Crow says Cooper cheats by using a new immortal he found and took in as a student. He hunts, but always makes his student issue the challenge and do the fighting. The other immortal doesn't even know Cooper's there. Once he sees an opening, he sneaks up and takes the guy's head. They double up when they have to, but Cooper always takes the quickening."

"A new immortal? Methos?"

"I know it sounds crazy, but Cooper has him believing his line of bullshit. Don't ask me how. Crow was there when Cooper found Methos. He shouldn't have, but he followed them back to Cooper's trailer and got close enough to hear some of their conversation. He heard Cooper tell Methos that he'd been his teacher since his first death, well before he disappeared, apparently. I guess that's how he explained Methos' ability to handle a sword. Stupid son-of-a-bitch. Forgot to mention some of the rules, I guess."

"And Methos believed him." It wasn't a question. Of course Methos believed him. He'd lost his memory. It'd be far too easy for an immortal like Cooper to dupe him. Worse, it drove home how much trouble Methos was really in. This immortal could easily take Methos' head without so much as a fight. 

"I know it's hard to imagine, but without his memory, all he knows is what Cooper has told him. I had Crow pulled back. After his report, I told him Cooper was too dangerous. So you won't have to worry about that. Just remember, that won't be your friend you're facing. Don't forget that."

"I won't, Joe. Trust me, I know what's at stake. Besides, maybe when he sees me, his memory will start coming back."

"Yeah, well, just don't count on it. It didn't happen with Cochran."

"Joe, Cochran and I weren't lovers."

He heard Joe chuckle into the phone. "I know that, Mac. Just don't put too much faith in that happening. I don't want to lose both of you. Look, here's where our guy followed him to. He's not living with Cooper, which at least we can be grateful for. Be careful, Mac."

"I will, Joe. Just keep your people away."

Duncan wrote down both addresses and grabbed his coat. He wasn't about to give up on his friend and lover now.

~~~~~~

 

Debbie Novotny jumped when several loud knocks reverberated through her front door. She padded over and looked out the window, nearly wetting her pants when she spotted the tall handsome man standing on her front step. 'Holy shit,' was her first thought. For some unknown reason he looked familiar, was her second. She opened the door, managing a "Hello" instead, as she grinned up at her visitor.

"Hello, are you Mrs. Novotny?"

"Ah, yes I am." Her smile faded away. This man's tone was much too serious, which set off all her warning bells at once.

"Mrs. Novotny, I'm Duncan MacLeod. I'm looking for a friend of mine, and I heard he may be staying here."

"A friend?" Okay -- since when had _she_ become so tongue tied? "Sure, come in," she motioned, vaguely aware that she was staring at the man.

"And what friend would that be?" she asked once they were settled into the living room, and she had regained some of her composure.

"His name is Adam Pierson, although I heard he was using the name Mac." Duncan reached into his wallet and removed a well worn picture of them together. "Here's a picture, Mrs...."

"Deb, you can call me Deb." She reached for the picture. Searching the faces, she smiled when she recognized Mac standing beside his friend with a look of intense pleasure on his face. She studied the picture carefully, and let all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. "You and Mac, you're close?" She chose her words carefully, not sure what would offend the man, especially since she still wanted some answers.

"We're lovers. Is that a problem?"

She watched in fascination as his body language subtly changed. Instantly, he sat up straighter, his jaw tightening as he waited for her answer. Clearly, he was prepared to debate the issue, and she grinned. "Hell no. He's been dreaming about you, you know. He, he, ah ...." She suddenly stopped smiling and looked up at him with genuine concern.

"He was afraid that he may have killed you. When we found him, he was covered with blood, with no memory of who he was or what had happened. Now he's having nightmares about swords and killing people. He's been depressed as hell."

"I know. I have a friend who's been helping me look for him. You wouldn't know where he is right now, would you?"

"He may be with that low life, Cooper." She noticed him visibly tense when she mentioned Cooper's name. "Do you know him? Don't tell me you let someone like him come between you ?" her voice hardened with outrage.

"No, I assure you that Cooper is not someone either one of us would have let in our lives. Adam has never met him before. Cooper's using Adam's amnesia to manipulate him."

"Yeah, I thought so. I knew there was something slimy about that guy. I tried to warn Mac, but he wouldn't listen. He's so damn stubborn.... Oh, God, I'm sorry." She quickly slapped her hand over her mouth when she realized what she'd just said, but to her relief he was laughing at her.

"No, no apology needed. I'm well aware of how stubborn he can be. Do you think he's with Cooper now?"

"Yeah, probably. He had a fight with my son, Michael, yesterday and then with Emmett this morning. He's pretty down on himself right now, and the worse it gets, the more he runs away from us. I tried to get him to talk about it, but he just clammed up even more."

"I'm sure you did everything you could. Thank you for taking care of him."

He rose and she got up to walk him to the door. He turned to her before stepping outside, and something he'd said suddenly registered. "Wait, you said his name was Adam. I like that. He looks like an Adam. I never thought Mac fit him," she added with a self-satisfied grin.

"I know. Mac is what he calls me. It's short for MacLeod."

She couldn't help but laugh, both from relief for her friend, and giddiness from being in the company of such a handsome and sensual man. "Okay, Mac. Go find him and drag him home."

"I will, Deb. Thank you."

She watched him leave, then turned and leaned heavily against the door. 'It is true,' she mused. 'All the gorgeous ones really are married or gay.' She shut the door and looked up to the ceiling, "Lord, I don't ask for much, but in my next life, let me come back as a gay man."

~~~~~~

Mac slid out of his rental car and walked up the path leading to the rusted single wide trailer sitting back under a set of oak trees. He tensed, feeling the deep tingle of presence that alerted him of more of his kind, and placed his hand on the hilt of his Katana. He had gone to the Novotny home first, hoping to catch Methos alone and talk to him there. Cooper was an unknown, and he didn't know what to expect. With Methos' amnesia, the last thing he wanted was to risk a confrontation. 

He could have waited until Methos returned, but no one knew better than himself that if Methos was feeling threatened, he would run in the opposite direction. Duncan simply couldn't count on him coming back to the Novotny's, not if they were arguing and Methos was having to defend his choices.

He didn't have long to wait this time, however, as the immortals inside felt his presence as he approached. He saw the metal and plastic door open, moved into a defensive stance, and waited.

He sucked in a deep breath as his lover appeared, dressed head to toe in black leather, a sword brandished in his hand. It wasn't his broadsword, in fact, it was a cheap imitation Japanese Katana, and he had to wonder at Methos' ability to handle a lighter, cheaper weapon after years of fighting with his heavier Ivanhoe.

"You looking for me?" Methos asked him menacingly.

"Aye, I'm looking for you. But, not to fight. We need to talk, Adam. Don't you know me?"

He felt a second immortal presence, and knew Cooper was hiding in the trailer, listening to every word. He wished they had been alone so he could call his lover by his true name, and perhaps receive recognition.

"Know you? I've never seen you before, and since when do immortals show up with a weapon in their hand to talk?" He nodded towards the Katana Duncan held firmly in his hand.

"I won't use this against you, Adam. You have to feel that on a gut level; you trusted me with your life. Just like I trust you now."

He saw Methos hesitate for a fraction of a second and moved a step closer, only to stop once again when the trailer door flung open and a small, rumpled man flew out brandishing a sword.

"Kill him, Mac. He's trying to trick you."

Neither man had time to react before Cooper pushed Methos toward him, who, in turn, instantly attacked with a yell as their blades connected. Mac parried the blows easily until Cooper's blade joined into the attack, and he danced backwards defensively against the double assault.

~~~~~~

Methos attacked, now aggressively taking charge of the challenge. He was aware when Cooper pulled back to watch, once they had forced the other man into a clear defensive position. It really didn't matter if the other immortal was the better swordsman. He knew that any time he was truly on the defensive , Cooper would oblige to once again even out the odds.

Methos smiled ferally as the strange immortal attacked, charging him offensively, and he parried the blows easily. This felt good, natural, and then it came to him: his dreams, the Katana the man held in his hand. And for the first time, he hesitated, and really looked at the man -- the muscular build, the long dark hair flowing around his shoulders.

His attention was quickly brought back to the fight when he received a cut to his thigh, and he stumbled backwards, bringing his sword up and over to deflect the next blow. The man's style was eerily familiar to him, and once again he remembered his dreams when he sparred with the faceless man. But, was the man faceless now? Or did he have the face of a prince, with fierce brown eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw, a mouth so sensual he longed to dance closer and kiss it?

Methos was faltering, his mind wandering away from the challenge. He took another slice to the leg and winced, until the blue flecks of electricity danced across his skin to heal the wound. Cooper obviously saw his momentary lapse, and he charged, deflecting the blow that would have disarmed Methos. Methos saw the immortal waver for just a moment before he went down to one knee. That gave Cooper the opening he needed to slice across the man's midsection. Duncan winced, but somehow managed to regain his balance and attack, easily driving Cooper backwards towards the trailer.

Cooper yelled at him to join in the attack, and he did, placing himself behind the other immortal until he was forced to turn to defend his back. It was then that Cooper ran his blade through the immortal's side, effectively puncturing a lung and causing the man to drop to his knees in pain and disbelief.

Methos backed away, his sword held ready, while Cooper placed his blade at the immortal's neck. He furrowed his brow and shivered when he realized the man wasn't watching Cooper at all, despite the fact that Cooper held his life in his hands as he prepared to swing his blade and take his head.

Instead, the man was staring at him with a soul wrenching look of pain and sadness in his eyes, and he felt his heart break in that moment as the film lifted from his mind and he was supplied a name.

The sunlight glinted off Cooper's blade as it was raised, and instantly Methos' memories came flooding back with a blinding flash. With his memories came gut-clenching panic, and Methos yelled as he ran forward with his sword extended. He felt his blade connect with flesh and bone as it sliced through Cooper's neck. He barely registered the look of shock on the other man's face when he realized what had happened, and then his head was toppling to the ground, the look forever etched on his features.

The quickening was thankfully weak despite the many heads the immortal had recently taken. Mac watched as the tendrils of lightning surrounded Methos, then the onslaught began as Cooper's quickening pelted him mercilessly. Even a weak quickening was painful and Duncan winced in sympathy as his lover screamed until he was left weak and shaking in its aftermath.

Methos dropped his sword to the ground and fell to his knees beside Duncan. Wrapping his arms around his lover, he he wept his name over and over. He felt a gentle hand stroke his hair and he looked up into deep brown eyes filled with concern. "Duncan, I was so scared. I saw his sword at your neck ...." he faltered, and hugged Duncan tighter.

"I know. You gave me quite a scare yourself. Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Methos attempted a weak laugh. "How did you find me?"

"Hey, I've got years of practice as a hunter and trapper."

Methos laughed. "Joe?"

"Joe," Mac agreed, then rightfully kissed the smirk right off his lover's mouth.

~~~~~~

After a quick call to Joe for immortal clean-up, Mac wrapped his coat around his body, and followed Methos into the hotel lobby. Methos had remained quiet most of the drive back, his head propped back against the seat, his eyes closed, as he rode out the fine tremors coursing through his tense frame. Mac wasn't sure if it was from the quickening or relief at getting his memory back, but Methos had grabbed his hand and refused to let go, squeezing so tightly he had winced in pain. There was no mistaking the bulge straining against the other man's leather pants, however, and Mac felt himself get hard with anticipation as they rode the elevator up to his room.

He slid his card into the lock and opened the door, pushing the other man forward into the room. He had no sooner shut the door behind him, when he was viciously slammed against the wall and his mouth was taken in a hungry assault. His lips were being bitten and licked and he opened them, allowing a silken tongue to take possession.

The body pressing him against the wall was all hard muscle and raging need and he instantly gave into his own hunger and kissed back, moaning when a hard muscled thigh pressed between his legs. His cock jumped and throbbed with the touch, and he began thrusting against his partner's leg until he had the friction he needed to relieve the tension building inside him.

Methos was moaning into Duncan's mouth, even as his tongue never stopped taking, his lips insistent, refusing to release their hold. He felt sculpted, knowing hands inside his shirt, stroking through his chest hair and down to his nipples. Impatiently, his shirt was pushed aside and his nipples were being pinched and stroked. The tender nubs began to harden and throb, and he moved his hips faster, adjusting his stance to get leverage. He felt pressure against his hip, and he moaned on a breath as he realized Methos was rubbing his own leather bound hardness against him, the thought of which drove his lust to a new urgency.

Duncan pushed at his lover's demanding body until he was finally at arms length. He looked into Methos' face, his eyes wild with desire, his nose flaring, his lips swollen and moist, and growled, "Now."

His answer was another kiss while he was steered towards the bed. He worked his own shirt off, then reached for his lover's leather jacket, perplexed when his hands were pushed roughly away.

"Leave it." The demand was dark and husky, and he let go immediately, never questioning the thrill of his submission. 

Methos yanked off his leather boots and pushed down his tight leather pants while Duncan removed his own jeans and underwear until he was standing completely naked in front of his lover. Methos pinned him with his gaze, then reached up and unsnapped his jacket, one snap at a time, exposing his chest in tiny increments. Smooth muscle appeared under the soft leather, a small spray of brown hair scattered teasingly in the center of his chest, a pink nipple winked, then disappeared, and Duncan felt himself grow impossibly harder. The final snap was released, and he groaned with hunger as Methos' weight pushed him down onto the bed. He splayed open his thighs to allow his lover where he needed him to be, and thrust upwards with his body to press his hardness against his lover's cock.

He wanted to curse when the warm body lifted, then all coherent thought dissolved on a breath at the sight in front of him. Methos, hot, sexy, his hair tousled and damp, his eyes dark with passion. His black leather jacket was a sharp contrast to his pale skin, as well as a complement to his finely chiseled muscular body. His cock was pulsing and throbbing -- hard and erect, the head reddened and glistening -- reaching upwards to dance against the soft leather .

He felt an answering throb in his own penis as it jerked against his abdomen, depositing a drop of his fluids onto his skin. It was a promise of completion his body couldn't ignore and he lifted his legs to his chest as he heaved with anticipation. Thankfully, out of habit he had packed the lubricant. Now, he waited, taking deep breaths to calm his impatience as he was prepared. Once the tube was tossed aside he pulled the other man to him, shivering when the cool leather touched his heated skin. Strong thighs pressed against the inside of his legs, and he was opened wider.

Methos twisted his fingers in Duncan's hair, pulling hard, and Duncan latched onto Methos' mouth, devouring it passionately when he felt the hard pressure of Methos' cock nudge inside his anus. He groaned into the kiss, and bore down, inviting the invasion, throwing his head back onto the pillows as he was filled. Methos' mouth moved down to his chest, licking and biting and sucking, until Duncan's skin was sensitive and throbbing with the weight of the cool air.

"Look at me." The command was dark and sultry, and Duncan opened his eyes and fell into an abyss of pleasure as he was taken, owned and loved. Their heated gaze moved as one to the sight of their passion. Methos' cock was thrusting inside his body, a pulsing hardness moving in and out, opening Duncan's body with it's power while the soft black leather of Methos' jacket framed their sex. His cock twitched at the sight and he felt an answering urgency in his lover's thrusts.

"Touch yourself." The demand was softened with a kiss, gentle this time, as he was bent almost in half, and Methos' cock slid across his gland. Duncan jerked and moaned, even as he reached for his cock and began to stroke. Methos lifted up, keeping him bent with his weight, and began to thrust faster and harder inside him, across his gland, both unable to look away as they strained towards completion.

Duncan was pumping and jerking into his hand as he felt Methos' cock pulse and expand, and they were both coming hard, their cocks releasing the remains of their pleasure. Methos' head dropped to Duncan's chest, his eyes now tightly closed as he rode out his orgasm inside Duncan's body.

It was long moments before they were able to recover and pull apart, sighing quietly into the still air as their heartbeats slowed and their breaths evened. Duncan turned towards his lover and chuckled when he noticed the expensive leather was covered with a spray of semen.

"What?" Methos asked, looking down at his body. "Oh," he grinned. "It'll wash off easily enough. You okay?"

"Yeah, better than okay. How about you?"

"Mmm, perfect. Thank you for finding me, Duncan."

"Hey, I had no choice. You're part of my life now, Methos. You're not going to get rid of me that easily."

There was an uncomfortable silence which Duncan ached to fill, but knew he couldn't. Not until the other man was ready. Instead, he pulled him into his arms, holding him to his chest, marveling at the sensation of soft heated skin and cool leather. He kissed Methos' hair and caressed a high cheekbone with his fingertips, waiting until his lover was ready to talk.

"I thought I had killed you," Methos said softly against his chest.

"I know. Debbie told me. Your memories were all mixed up. It's a wonder it didn't make you crazy."

"Who said it didn't?" Methos questioned, followed by a nervous laugh. "Duncan, Cooper...."

"Hush," Duncan coaxed, brushing his fingers across Methos lips. "I understand. There's no need to bring it up again."

Methos nodded and he relaxed his hold.

"Do you want to know what I found out, Duncan?"

"Of course. If you want to tell me."

"Want to? No; I'm scared shitless. But I need to. There's something inside of me, Duncan. There are things in my past, things I can't talk about right now. But, suffice it to say, I've seen dark times. I've been so lost for most of my life. I didn't even know it at the time; I was so used to the void, the darkness. Then my memories were gone, and I had to go deep inside myself to try and retrieve them. That's when I felt it, a void so deep and so black that it was endless. Five thousand years worth, Duncan. Oh, there were good times, have no doubt. But, still, even then, I couldn't be _me_. I couldn't be Methos. I was never all of me, completed, found. Not until you. You complete me in every way, Duncan. You fill that void, give me light in places I didn't even realize existed. Somehow I knew that, even when I couldn't remember who you were ... You were faceless in my dreams, you know."

"I was?" Duncan turned their bodies so he could see Methos' face.

"I didn't realize why at first. I couldn't figure it out. All I knew was that the void was back, and somehow you had filled it. I was afraid I had lost you forever." Methos' voice softened until he fell into silence. Duncan waited, peacefully, patiently, feeling the gentle caress of Methos' hand on his chest. 

Methos looked at him, appearing to be studying his face -- his reactions? "I knew if that happened, I was lost forever as well. Now I understand why I couldn't see your face. Why all I saw was a bright light instead of your gorgeous eyes or your sensual," he paused and kissed Duncan's lips, "mouth. It's because I was looking at your essence. That's what you are to me, Duncan. A bright light that takes away my darkness, finds me, protects me, and makes me whole."

Duncan swallowed hard and pulled Methos against him tightly. "You'll always have me, Methos. No matter what, we'll never be separated -- not for long. Remember that, no matter how black it gets, no matter how lost you feel."

"Is that a promise, Highlander?" Methos whispered against his chest.

"Yes, it's a promise. I make it on my parents' spirits, and protect it with my honor. I'll never turn from you, Methos. You'll never be lost again."

~~~~~~

EPILOGUE

The lock clicked open easily under Methos' touch, and he eased the pick back into his pocket. He slipped inside quietly, his leather boots sliding across the carpet soundlessly. He was dressed all in black, the tight leather both sensuous and dangerous, only the pale skin of his face showing in the moonlight. He could have camouflaged his face, but he wanted to see the look of recognition in the Watcher's eyes, the fear across his face when he realized what Methos was.

He reached Blackman's bedroom, and silently opened the door, tensing when it creaked slightly under his gloved hand. He slipped inside noiselessly, and stopped at the foot of the bed, watching dispassionately as the Watcher slept. 'Ah, the dreams of the unknowing,' he sighed to himself.

But, it was time this man _did_ know, and he kicked the bed hard, smiling when it jarred the man awake.

"What the fuck?" The Watcher struggled to sit up, eyes wide, his face stark with fear. Reaching around the side of the bed, he punched a button on the wall, frenzied and visibly shaken when there was no response.

"Don't bother, Blackman. I wouldn't have bothered breaking in if I hadn't disarmed your security system first." Internally, he wondered at the uncontrolled look of terror on the man's face. Why was it that some of the most vicious and unmerciful men were also the greatest cowards?

"What do you want? Is it money? There's my wallet -- take it, it's yours." He pointed to the bedside table. "I'll open the safe; just let me get up ." Blackman jumped out of bed and reached for his wallet, grabbing a handful of bills to thrust in Methos' direction. "Here.... it's all I have on me, but there's more in the safe. Please, anything you want."

Methos stood silently, watching the man fall apart with desperation. How would _he_ react to a gun being placed to the back of his head, knowing he was about to have his brains blown out? The thought brought an involuntary shudder and he smiled wickedly. "If I ever have the urge to rob you, I'll remember that," he stated with simple humor.

Suddenly, Blackman stopped cold, and his expression turned questioning as he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Don't you remember me, Blackman? I'm hurt. We were so close before you killed me."

He moved closer as he talked, wondering when recognition would register past the fear that had the man routed to the floor like a statue. "We even discussed my sex life, if I recall. Something about screwing an immortal. You were with me when I died. I believe you pulled the trigger. Can't get any more personal than that."

Blackman's eyes grew wide and he blanched. 

"You." It wasn't a question and Methos didn't answer, letting his laughter echo through the room instead.

"Ah, so you do know me."

"You're immortal."

Methos clapped his hands together in appreciation. "Very good, Blackman. You figured it out. Let's see if you can figure it _all_ out, though, shall we?" Methos was right in front of him now, close enough he could smell his sweat, look into his dilated pupils, and see the run of snot dripping from his nose hair.

"You were already immortal?"

"Very, very good. Yes, I was immortal before I fell in love with MacLeod."

Blackman's voice shook, but to Methos' amusement, he continued to play the game. "When did you become immortal? Is that why you resigned from the Watchers?"

Methos shook his head. "I'm disappointed, Blackman. You were doing so well." 

Methos took a few steps back to give the illusion of safety. Cocking his head to one side, he studied the Watcher, considering, taking note of the long sigh of relief as the space widened between them. "But, you're a bright boy," Methos admonished. "Let's try again."

"You were already immortal?" The man sounded positively incredulous, and Methos smiled at his outrage. Blackman was an arrogant bastard, even now. "An immortal in the Watchers? That's forbidden. You can't ... you couldn't ...."

"Ah, but I did." 

Methos strode back to the Watcher so quickly and effortlessly that Blackman didn't seem to notice until Methos was skirting his personal space. "Have you not figured it out yet, Blackman?" He laid a hand on the trembling Watcher's shoulder and squeezed. "Think about it. Who was I researching?"

Blackman's lips trembled as he studied Methos' face. "Methos," he whispered. "You found Methos and took his head."

Methos took a deep breath and snorted in frustration. "No, you stupid little man. I did _not_ find Methos and take his head," he spat out irritably.

"Then what...who?"

Methos pressed close, letting his breath wash across the man's sweaty skin. "I am Methos."

The Watcher was quivering against him, paralyzed with fear when Methos withdrew the knife from his pocket. Smiling coldly, he drew the razor sharp edge across Blackman's rapidly swallowing throat. Blood gushed over Methos' gloves as Blackman's eyes registered shocked realization, and then he was falling, his body convulsing in the throes of death as he emptied his bladder.

Methos looked at the body dispassionately, then he reached over and wiped his blade clean on the bedspread. Slipping the knife back into its sheath, he turned, walked away, and never looked back.

Remaining hypervigilant, he quickly maneuvered the Watcher compound back to his car. Opening the trunk, he grabbed his carry-all and pulled out a clean set of clothes and shoes. Once he was satisfied his soiled clothing was secured in plastic bags for disposal, he climbed in his car and retrieved his cell phone. He clicked it on and dialed a number, starting his car as he waited for a response.

He heard the phone pick up and a deep, familiar voice came over the line. "MacLeod."

"Mac, it's me. I was able to handle my business faster than I anticipated. I'm on my way home. I love you."

"I love you too. Be safe."

"Always, Highlander." He drove home, determined to never be lost again.

~~~~~~

_POST SCRIPT_

Bob Clement fingered his mustache and growled in frustration while his confused banker stammered over the phone line.

"I don't know what happened, Mr. Clement. All I can tell you is what it says on your paperwork. Your loan was paid off in full two weeks ago. We sent your title in the mail."

"But that doesn't make any sense. Look, I'm not trying to cause trouble here, but I'm sure I'd remember coming up with fifty thousand dollars and paying my truck off. This has to be some kind of computer error," he groused. Damn it, they'd better not try to make him pay any late charges when they finally get it straightened out. It wasn't his fault the bank refused his monthly payment.

"Mr. Clement, I assure you, there hasn't been a mistake. You own your truck, free and clear."

"Yeah, well, I'd better not hear anything from your bank about any late charges or repossession when you find out you're wrong," he warned before slamming the phone down in its cradle. 'Arrogant assholes,' he grumbled to himself while picking up the receiver to dial another number.

He heard a click, followed by his wife's voice. "Hello."

"Betty, it's me. Listen, honey, did I receive something in the mail from the bank this week?"

"Yeah, a letter came. I didn't open it. Should I?"

"Yeah, go ahead. Those jerks have my loan all screwed up. What does it say?" He waited, cringing when he heard a squeal come over the line. "Betty, calm down. What is it?"

"Bob, it says your loan is paid in full. They sent your title."

"Betty, you know damn good and well I didn't have the money to pay that loan off. It's a mistake. When does it say the payment was made?"

"Two weeks ago, darlin'. Bob, out last payment to the bank was a month ago. What the hell is going on?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know? Did I get anything else?"

"Just a card from someone named 'Mac'," she replied absentmindedly.

He waited, knowing her thoughts were probably still targeted on the loan from the bank. After a brief interlude, however, it was obvious he would have to prod her along. 

"What does it say? Betty?"

"Huh? Oh, it says, hang on." He heard the sound of ripping paper, then she was back on the line. "It says, thanks for the lift. Here is the money you loaned me with interest. Mac."

Bob scratched his head. He remembered the young guy he picked up in Washington D.C., and smiled. He knew Mac would be okay when the other man came looking for him. He hadn't actually expected to hear from him though, much less pay back the small amount of money he'd given him for food. He jumped when his thoughts were interrupted by another squeal. "God dawg, Betty. I may need that ear drum again, baby," he fussed at her playfully.

"Bob, he paid for your rig. This Mac guy. He sent a copy of your loan papers. He paid it off in full. How much money did you give this man?"

"Just a twenty dollar bill, honest, baby. Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it says right here. Paid in full."

"Well, sweet merciful Jesus."

"Who is this guy, honey?"

"Hell if I know, Betty. Hell if I know."

~~~~~~

Debbie Novotny threw down her purse with a grunt before slinging herself onto a kitchen chair.

"You look exhausted, sis," Vic informed her after placing a gentle kiss to her cheek.

"I am, Vic. Business at the diner has almost doubled and I can barely keep up. I'm fucking tired." She groaned as she pulled off her shoes, letting them drop with a _clop_ one at a time on the kitchen floor.

"You work too many hours, Deb. You know that, and all you're accomplishing is making yourself sick."

"Well, what the fuck do you want me to do?" she snapped with frustration. "Between the mortgage and the damned hospital bills, I'm barely making it as it is."

Vic's face fell. He knew his illness had taken a serious toll on his sister. She had single handedly worked and taken care of him after he had been diagnosed with HIV. He was trying to help her by working with Emmett at his new catering service, but the business hadn't taken off yet, due mainly to their lack of funds to buy the right equipment. And, working as a waitress was not the most secure job for paying bills.

"Sis...."

"No," she said softly, reaching out to take his hand. "I'm sorry, Vic. I shouldn't have said that. You know I want to help you. I wouldn't have it any other way. I just had a shitty day, that's all. I had no right to take it out on you."

"You could ask Michael and Ben...." he offered, but was cut off immediately.

"Fuck no. I will not ask for handouts from my own son," she yelled, her apology already forgotten on the last breath. "I'll call the bank and ask for an extension on the mortgage payment this month, that's all," she added, her anger now deflated as the last of her energy ebbed away.

Vic sat silently as she went into the living room to use the phone. He watched her from the kitchen table while she waited for her loan agent to come on the line, trying not to think about how much they had both aged in the past few years. He smiled when she immediately took over the conversation, telling the agent what she needed. 'Give her hell, Deb.' He smiled to himself.

Suddenly, her demeanor changed, and he startled, rushing to her side. Turning pale, she sat down heavily in the living room chair, shushing him away when he tried to intervene.

"What do you mean, it's paid for? I think I'd know if I paid fifteen thousand dollars too much last month," she snarked at the unseen person on the phone. "Uh, huh. Right. You're sure there's no mistake?"

Vic watched her closely, fidgeting with anxiety as he waited for her to finish her call. She finally put down the phone and turned to him with confusion and wonder on her face.

"Someone paid off our mortgage. We own the house free and clear", she said sotto voce.

"I don't want to burst your bubble, sis, but how can that be?"

She shrugged. "How the fuck should I know?" 

He stared at her in disbelief. "Deb ...."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not a complete idiot, Vic. She obviously doesn't know what the hell she's talking about. I'll go down to the bank in the morning and straighten everything out."

Reaching over to the coffee table, she picked up the mail and started sorting through it. "Look, a card from Mac ... I mean Adam," she smiled and tore open the envelope.

Vic watched her read the card, and once again dropped by her side with concern when she turned pale. "Sis, what is it? Is he okay?"

"Yeah." She turned to look at him. "He paid off our mortgage. He says thank you for all we did for him."

"You're joking, right ?"

"Hell no. Look." She handed him the card, then stood up and started doing a happy dance in the middle of the living room. He grinned as he watched her swing her hips and throw her arms up in the air. He read the card quickly, tossed it on the coffee table, and joined his sister in her victory dance.

~~~~~~

"All right, all right already," Emmett called out as he rushed to the front door to answer the impatient knocking. He swung the door open with annoyance. He was right in the middle of cooking an important dinner, and it was taking forever with his small stove. He opened his door to a tall man wearing dark pants, and a light blue shirt monogramed with the name "Luke" above the left pocket. 

"Yes?" 

"Mr. Emmett Honeycutt?" 

Emmett placed one hand on his hip while wiping a streak of flour off his nose with the other. "Yes, I'm Emmett."

"I have a delivery for you. Sign here please."

Emmett looked over the man's shoulder and shrugged. "What delivery? I didn't order anything."

"It's in the truck. Look, all I know is that it has your name and address, and I'm supposed to deliver it here, okay buddy?"

"Yeah, sure. What is it, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I don't know, but it's heavy. Think you can give me a hand?"

"I guess so," Emmett grumbled, wondering what the hell was going on.

They brought the large crate up on the dolly, and slid it off in the living room. Emmett looked at the packing list and screeched. "Oh my God. This is a mistake. I was going to buy this stove, but my funds fell through. You have to take it back. I can't afford this."

"Look, I have my orders. Besides, it's listed as paid in full." _Luke_ pointed to the bottom of the invoice. "Oh, yeah, I'm supposed to give you this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card.

Emmett raised an eyebrow. Confused and intrigued, he took the card. He tore it open, gasping when he read it's contents. "Honey, thank you," he exclaimed, then unable to contain his excitement, he reached for the delivery man to place a kiss square on his lips.

"Hey, what the hell?" the man sputtered in shock as he backed away from the effeminate man trying to kiss him.

Emmett reread his card and laughed while the man stumbled from the room. "Oh my, just wait until everyone hears about this."

~~~~~~

Methos looked over at his lover who had just grabbed his hand possessively as they entered Babylon. It was exactly as he remembered, loud, hazy and erotic. He'd been surprised when Duncan wanted to return to Pittsburgh and visit the large sex filled gay club. He didn't mind, however, since it gave him an opportunity to visit with his new friends one last time.

"Do you see them?" Duncan asked as they made their way through the crowd.

Methos looked around, smiling when he saw Emmett's enthusiastic wave in their direction. "Yeah, there's Emmett. Come on." He led the Scot to the bar, noticing the openly lustful looks of the other men as they passed.

"Hi, sweetheart." Emmett grabbed him to place a kiss on his lips.

Methos laughed and pulled back. "Emmett, Michael, Ben," he motioned to the other men who were lounging against the bar. "This is my partner, Duncan MacLeod."

Methos watched with amusement as they all shook hands, knowing the other men were sizing up his lover as they did. They ordered a drink and settled in against the bar with his friends.

Methos sipped his beer and leaned forward when Duncan pressed close to his ear. "Is your other friend here? What's his name? Brian?"

Methos looked around the crowded dance floor and grinned. So that's what this was all about. The possessive Scotsman was jealous. "Yeah." He grinned wider and pointed with his beer bottle. "There he is, with Justin. Come on. I'll introduce you." He tugged on Duncan's hand, pulling him out onto the dance floor. They moved next to the two men in question and started dancing.

Methos began swinging his hips to the music, easily moving into the same beat as his partner. He saw Brian look over Justin's shoulder at them with a smirk. He grinned back, and started laughing when Duncan moved closer and thrust his hips against him. Methos rubbed his groin against Duncan's leather clad leg, and groaned when his cock started hardening in his tight jeans.

He felt Duncan's answering hardness and moved his hips faster as Duncan's strong arms pulled him closer. "You're jeal --" he started to taunt, but stopped mid word as his mouth was brutally taken. He felt a tongue slip between his lips and opened his mouth, letting it in.

They continued to gyrate and thrust against each other through another song, their arms holding the other in a bruising grip until the pressure in their cocks began building towards climax.

"Duncan," Methos gasped, even as he looked into the smoldering gaze of Brian Kinney who had slipped up next to them with Justin. He turned his gaze back to Duncan, and felt his cock throb.

"Methos," Duncan growled against his ear, then bit down hard on his neck as their hips thrust one last time and their cocks pulsed together to spray the inside of their pants.

"Fuck," Methos cried out, his voice swallowed up by the music playing overhead as he came. He shivered against his lover, who was crushing him to his chest, screaming into Methos' shoulder as he pulsed out his own seed.

They were both breathing hard, their bodies wringing with sweat, when Duncan took his hand and turned to lead them away. He laughed out loud when Duncan paused next to the two men still dancing next to them. "Brian, Justin. This is Duncan MacLeod," he yelled over the music.

Brian smiled, his eyes telegraphing a seductive invitation to them both.

"Hi." Justin beamed at them with a sincere grin.

Duncan looked at the two men and smiled coolly, then nodded and stepped around them, never letting go of Methos' hand as they turned to move through the crowd. Then he stopped suddenly, pausing once again to lean toward the pair. "Mine," he growled before grabbing his lover and pulling him out the door. 

 

_finis_  



End file.
